Thanks

As I'm writing this, my final post, the Miami Heat are playing the Indiana Pacers in a pivotal game four. I don't know how I arrived at this point--preferring a blank page to the pinnacle of my sporting calender¹--but apparently after nine months, I'm still in the honeymoon phase of writing.

I'm happy to report that I have met my reading goals for this project. I finished all 25 books plus three extra credit, “Above and Beyond” books (see my reading chart to the right). I enjoyed the variety of books/authors that I never would have chosen for myself-- Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, and most of my biographies (never been a huge biography fan). More than anything though, I enjoyed modeling a love of reading for my students. I loved how they quizzed me after each book, just as I quizzed them. Now that I know that 25 books in 9 months is doable (if you are wise about the length of your books), I definitely would take on the challenge again.

I couldn't wrap things up without thanking a few people, the first of which is my wonderful wife. You should probably thank her as well, for she willingly edited every blog, helped organize my jumbled thoughts and corrected my third grade punctuation. She was a valuable editor and my biggest encourager. Thank you, my love.

I also wanted to thank my friends Kevin and Mary. Kevin and Mary are both gifted and committed writers who have given me a wonderful combination of affirmation and criticism. The three of us started a monthly writing group--we share pieces and give each other feedback. There is also the consumption of tasty beer, merriment and the sound of iron, sharpening iron. I look forward to our next meeting the moment I walk out the door from our last. Lucky for you, they also sifted through my grammar and punctuation deficiencies. If there was ever a blog that seemed especially tight and free of errors, it had most likely gone through my wife, and then Kevin and Mary. Thank you guys for your friendship and expertise.

Finally I'd like to thank all of you for reading. So many of you wrote thoughtful, sweet comments and emails. I loved hearing your thoughts and was humbled that a few pieces were meaningful to you. Special thanks to Micah, Nick, my aunt Myra, my sister, my favorite northwest cousin, my favorite south pacific cousin, Sue M., Shirley, Dr. John E., McNizzle, my old “boss” and any other regular readers that I did not have a chance to dialogue with. Thanks for being in it to win it. Your journey with me meant more than you know.

It's rare to completely enjoy a season of life and yet be excited for its ending, but that is were I find myself. There are other things that I am excited to write and other commitments I have in store for next year outside of teaching and reading. These nine months have truly been a gift from the Lord, the best of which was connecting with all of you.

Thanks again.

Have a great summer and above all, happy reading!

-td

1. March Madness is no longer considered a sports calender “pinnacle.” It's more along the lines of “annual punch in the stomach” or “seasonal depression.” Thus is the life of a Mizzou basketball fan...

Nelly and the Hunger Games

*Spoiler Alert* Do not read the bold portion of the following post if you are planning on reading the Hunger Games!

*Secondary Alert* My wife doesn't want the Hunger Games spoiled and therefore could not edit this post. You WILL be able to tell a difference.

Leaving school one day I was captured by the smooth sounds and lyrical complexity of Nelly's, “Must be da Money.” It seems Nelly and I have a lot in common.  I too prefer an all wood interior in my Range Rover, as well as paying cash, flying first class, and sitting next to Vanna White.  My Pontiac Vibe speakers pumped it out for the fine city of El Dorado, Kansas to enjoy.

Things got interesting when I pulled up to a stop light, and several of my students were in the car next to mine. It all happened so fast. There was a split second where I could have killed the volume, but I froze. I could have turned my head and looked the other way (the whole 'If I can't see them they can't see me' logic) but instead, for some unfathomable reason, I looked them square in the eyes and again, froze.

“You are a TEACHER!” were the only words I heard.

It was half question, half accusation. The light turned green and I jumped off the line as only a Pontiac Vibe 4 cylinder can. I talked to myself the whole way home trying to convince myself that it never happened. Looking back the only reasonable response was to hold their stare, not say a word, and turn the volume up. Maybe show them a couple of my best car dance moves. Anything else is just running scared, and I ran scared that day, my friends. But luckily, I'm smarter now. Due to a wealth of experience, I can handle a Nellie/middle schooler collision with ease.

To a slightly lesser extent, this is how my students have responded to my reading the Hunger Games. “Mr. Daniel, you are reading the Hunger Games? You are a teacher!” they say with a smile. I stare them right in the eye and say, “Yes, and I'm loving every page. I read on my lunch breaks, late into the night, and once had to talk myself out of reading while driving. Have you read them yet?” It's now cool to read the Hunger Games. They fight over our classroom copies.

I was reluctant to begin the series because, like most people, a death match amongst children doesn't sound like my idea of a good time. But I could no longer ignore the hype and I always want to read the book before I see the movie. They are also a perfect fit for the three book, topical text category on our reading chart this quarter.

Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed the series. I got a little nervous as the, 'angst filled, teenage girl has to decide between two likeable boys who both have a piece of her heart,' theme gathered steam. At one point I remember thinking, “I'm not reading another page until I know for a fact that Peeta is not a Vampire.” I also never leave my place of employment thinking, “How can I get more exposure to emotional, teenage girl drama? I'm really interested in that sort of thing.” It turns out that Suzanne Collins is smart and utilized the literary technique of “death matches” to distract her male readers from all the angst and discussion of feelings.

Speaking of death matches, when Katniss was raised to the arena, it would have taken a smart swing from a baseball bat for me to stop reading. It was the most gripping few chapters I have read since the The Half Blood Prince or The Deathly Hallows. You simply are not putting that book down once you reach that point. I haven't met anyone who has taken longer than a week to finish the first book. The writing is not horrible either. Powerful similes stay with me and I still remember Katniss' first description of her little sister, “Prim is as innocent as a raindrop.”

I was sad however when Collins sent Katniss back to the Hunger Games in Catching Fire. It felt like she didn't trust herself to go in a completely new creative direction--like she had to recreate the most successful portion of her last book to stay afloat. I would have loved to see her be bold and head in a completely new direction. And though she didn't send her back to the games in the third book, she couldn't resist the urge to frame the final battle as 'Katniss' final Trip to the Hunger Games.' She is a gifted writer, she didn't need to rest on the success of her first book.

While the second book was a let down the third book finished strong. It was creative--I loved how Peeta was programmed by the capital to kill Katniss. For those of us who were becoming annoyed at Katniss' antics, it provided a character we could strangely relate to. The ending was wonderfully bitter sweet. Choosing Peeta over Gale was well grounded in the truth of the story. Gale called it when he said, “She'll choose who best meets her needs.” By the end, that didn't feel selfish either. It seemed like she deserved to make her decision that way after all she had been through. It's a hard thing to build emotional attachment in a thriller. With a few bumps along the way, Collin's pulled it off.

I had a similar journey as most HG readers; loved the first book, felt like Catching Fire fell flat, and was really surprised at how attached I had become to Katniss by the end of Mockingjay. Overall, it was a great read, and I would highly recommend it for a fun, somewhat mindless, summer read. I would only encourage you to learn from my mistakes involving Nelly and middle schoolers. In the moment I froze and the horrifying seconds after I drove away, I completely lost the enjoyment of what we all know to be a great song. Whether it be Nelly, Twilight, or Harry Potter, just embrace it and turn up the volume. Look people square in the eye when they ask what you are reading. Read HG in plain view during your lunch break at work. Read it with a bow and arrow strapped to your back while making guttural war cries. Do all these things in the English department of your snobbiest local university. Embrace your inner Nelly and Katniss. For as with many things in life--to fully embrace, is to fully enjoy.

Happy reading!

-td

My Wonderful Introduction to Malcolm Gladwell

Let’s pretend for a moment the Lord has granted you super human strength that would turn the Hulk from green to red at the arm wrestling table.  He then gives you one simple task:  Fold an 8.5X11 piece of paper in half, 50 times.  I’m sure you could think of a thousand more fun and worthwhile endeavors for your strength, but humor me, and let’s start with paper folding.  You’ll need all of your strength too.  Mere mortals can’t get 7 folds.  The hulk might stop at about 30 unless maybe you talked about his mom.  But you, your goal is to keep going until you reach 50.  Now, how tall do you think that piece of paper would be?  As tall as a refrigerator?  A house?  Assume that I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a crazy answer.  5 empire state buildings stacked on top of each other? 

Not even close.

Your 8.5X11 piece of paper would now stretch from the earth to the sun. Approximately 93 million miles.  And if we went to 51 folds, your paper would be tall enough to make a return trip to earth.  This is the power of exponential growth.  One fold doubles the thickness, but the next fold is 4 times thicker, then 8, 16, 32, 64 and on and on. This rate of growth is hard for us to wrap our minds around.  In Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell explores this question: What is it that makes some ideas, diseases, merchandise, whatever it might be, spread at an exponential rate?  What makes things spread like wildfire?  But wait a second, wildfire isn’t quite strong enough, wildfire doesn’t really spread exponentially.  I’m starting, right here and now, a new “spreading” simile.  How can we get things to spread like paper folding?  That works, right?  Maybe not, but paper folding kicks wildfire’s butt in spreading every time.

But back to Gladwell’s question: Why do some things spread at an exponential rate?  Think YouTube viral videos.  What makes a video jump from 10 views in one week to over 2 million three weeks later?  What makes it spread like folding paper?  Gladwell answers this question with three neat bullet points.

1) You have to have the right people involved.  Paper folding epidemics of any kind, need a few specific types of people that we all know but are actually quite rare.  These people include gifted persuaders, trustworthy know-it-alls and those crazy extroverts who know hundreds and hundreds of people from all walks of life. If a video link comes from these types of people, we are much more likely to watch it and to send it to someone else.

2) The second thing is that the message (or video in this case) must have a “stickiness” factor.  That is, it must somehow resonate with us and make us want to pass it on.  You only forward that video link to your friend if it made you laugh out loud while you watched it again and again.  That video’s hilarity is it’s “stickiness.” 

3) The third part is the message must come when we are contextually/historically ready for it.  You might get the same hilarious video from every persuader, know-it all, and relationally gifted extrovert you know but you aren’t watching it if it’s September 11^th, 2001.  Wrong time to be a hilarious viral video.   For something to spread, it has to be the right time historically and contextually.

Sounds easy right?  Wait for the just the right time and get your sticky product/idea in the hands of the right people and presto—the paper starts folding.  This is the genius of Malcolm Gladwell.  He is a master at explaining complex ideas to the masses in a fascinating, page- turning style.  I could have chosen from 20 different studies or stories as fascinating as the paper folding example.  The Tipping Point is a fun fact bonanza.

For instance did you know that subway graffiti can have an effect on the murder rate in New York City? The stickiest part of the book for me (besides the paper folding example) was the Broken Window Theory.  This theory says that there are often very small contextual things that get an epidemic started.  If a person walks by a building with a Broken Window they might assume that either no one lives there or they don’t care how it’s treated and proceed to break the rest of that window, take what he wants or even make himself comfortable.  Eventually, this building is trashed and the next hoodlum says, “Man, this building is trashed.  That one next to it can’t be much better; I wonder what they got in there?”  Slowly the neighborhood starts to crumble.  The disorder spreads from the buildings to the streets and chaos ensues.  The building owner might complain about the neighborhood, demand police root out the criminal underworld; maybe he drops a few thousand in campaign contributions to the next mayoral candidate promising to be tough on crime.  But believers in the BWT think he should have just fixed his window in a timely manner.  BWT says that crime is a manifestation of disorder, and disorder is in the smallest details.

Now, let’s take a look at this theory in practice.  In the 1980’s, New York was experiencing a terrible crime wave.  We are talking 2,000 murders and 600,000 felonies per year.  In response to this crime wave, New York leaders decided to apply the Broken Window theory.  They attacked small, surface level offenses that were simply causing disorder.  They cracked down on subway graffiti and subway fare jumping (over 100,000 per day!).    Life as a windshield squeegee man became a high wire act in avoiding arrest.   If you were publicly drunk or caught urinating in public, you were going to jail.  They obsessively fixed the broken windows.  The results were astounding.  By the mid 90’s murders were cut in half, felonies were reduced by two-thirds and in the subway alone felonies dropped by 75%. 

Seems simple enough right?  Fix the small stuff, big stuff follows.  As a teacher reading this, your mind starts racing.  Before our eyes we seem to be watching the disintegration of the Kansas City Missouri School District and you can’t help but think of the possible broken windows.   Before reading Tipping Point, I would have jumped immediately to huge systemic problems:  The disintegration of the urban family unit.  Lack of quality administrators and teachers.  Students with low basic skills. Lack of Parental support etc.  All problems that appear to have zero short term solutions.   But who in the world would have thought attacking subway graffiti and fare jumping would cut murders in half, in less than 10 years?  It’s hopeful and unsettling at the same time.  Hopeful because I feel change is attainable.  Unsettling because I’ve grown quite comfortable throwing my hands in the air and saying, “Nothing can be done with problems so big.”

Off the top of my head here are some possible broken windows of public schools:  Join me in my practice in naivety.

1)      Building maintenance and cleanliness.   Teachers and kids can’t focus on learning amongst urban decay.  My school does an amazing job of this.   Also, Mr. Daniel needs to clean his desk off more than once a week.  It’s the broken window of his classroom.

2)      Dress code:  What students wear and how low their trousers ride affect their attitude.  It’s not popular with the kids but it’s true.  Sadly, I’m guessing only about 10% of teachers really take the time to look for dress code violations (That noise you hear is me whistling,  looking around the room and waiting for the subject to change).

3)      Jokes:  What students are allowed to joke about affects how they treat each other and their attitude towards learning.  We don’t make jokes at the expense of others regardless of how innocent it might seem.  We don’t joke about fighting.  Students are held accountable for what they joke about.

4)      The bus:  Finish this sentence with the profession of your choice: “There is not enough money in the world to get me to be a____________”   This is easy for me: middle school bus driver. It’s 100 times less appealing than cleaning sewers and even selling bridal gowns.  Driving a bus is hard.  The drivers don’t seem to have the disciplinary authority of teachers and the kids know it.  Even with a bus supervisor, it’s hard to keep an eye on everyone with the large distance between the front and back seat.  The bus is a tough place.  Things get crazy.  When the bus is crazy, kids think it’s okay to be crazy at school.  The bus needs something that says this is a safe, orderly place.  Bus seating charts?  Class management training for bus staff?  Something.

5)      Students entering the building:  What if every single teacher and administrator not on morning duty lined up and welcomed students with a high five, a fist bump or any other sort of positive welcome to school?   We are glad you’re here.  We’ve been waiting for you.  Today is important.  Let’s have a great day.

Let’s not focus on the fact that I’m a little late to the Malcolm Gladwell party and celebrate the fact that I finally made it. I loved every page of Tipping Point.  It’s not only a fascinating read that is guaranteed to make you share at least two interesting facts with someone you know, but it makes your mind race with possibilities in your own line of work, in your own life even.    I hope I start a tipping point for the Tipping Point.  I want to talk to people about it.  I want it to spread like wildfire being folded 50 times.

Thanks for reading.

-td

A Husband's Guide to Reading Pride and Prejudice

I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice aloud with my wife.  I learned in Teddy Roosevelt’s biography, that he loved to read aloud to his wife.  The read aloud aspect had such a wonderful crackling fire, library feel to it that we decided to give it a try.  I chose Pride and Prejudice because it is my wife’s favorite movie and thus, my best chance of getting her hooked on reading together.  It was a fabulous book, but I’d like to give a few pointers to any husbands who might be trying to read this book with their wives ¹; it provides some challenges for those of us suffering from various forms of stereotypical maleness.  Husbands, if you follow my game plan you will be able to pull this off and even enjoy yourself.  This does not have to be the reading equivalent of a Sandra Bullock movie.

Tip #1: Cleanse your reading palate.

Last week I tried to eat an orange after brushing my teeth.  I found the orange so bitter and disgusting that I couldn’t finish it.  And so we see my enjoyment of the orange was entirely dependent upon the last thing that entered my mouth.  Reading Pride and Prejudice is not much different; you need to watch what you consume directly beforehand. 

Here are a few things to avoid:

Hunger Games was the most gripping book I have read since The Deathly Hallows or The Half Blood Prince.  Pride and Prejudice is not gripping.  It meanders like a Sunday stroll.  If you still have Hunger Games on your palate, you will be making the bitter orange face the entire time and asking your wife things like, “Is there any sort of death match soon?” or “I bet with a little training, Elizabeth could be handy with a pair of throwing knives.”  It’s just not fair to Pride and Prejudice, your wife, or even peaceful, innocent Elizabeth. 

Hemmingway was once asked if he spent much time editing The Old Man and the Sea and he replied by saying something like, “Read that book and see if you can make any sentence even one word shorter.”  Jane Austen is anti-gripping and she is also the anti-Hemmingway.  It would not surprise me if asked the same question she might have replied, “Just try and make one of my sentences even one word longer...”

The beginning of The Old Man and the Sea starts like this: “He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone 84 days now without taking a fish.”  In Jane Austenese that sentence turns into something like this, “In the sun drenched humidity of the vehement Gulf Stream there once lived a man whose countenance had suffered failure after failure to procure various forms of salt water vertebrates from which he derived his livelihood, passion, love and existential fortitude.  Nay, it was nearly 6 fortnights past whence he last had a companion upon his solitary maritime vessel which, in the not too distant past, had kept him sailing through many suns, moons, hurricanes, and sunsets.”

In short, she’ll feel a little wordy and grandiose on the heels of Hemingway, like she’s a wonderful speaker in love with the sound of her own voice.  Just know, like Hemmingway and the rest of us, she’s a product of her time and geographical location.  She’s brilliant, but a brilliance hewn from the Dickinson (who was paid by the word!) style of longwinded, old-school British verbiage. 

And so I recommend cleansing your reading palate with something a little slower paced and grandiose.  I’m thinking some sort of narrative non-fiction that takes you back to a slower simpler way of life.  Of the books I’ve read this year I’d recommend David McCullough’s, Mornings on Horseback.  Appropriate time period, perfect pace, and tactfully wordy. 

Tip #2: Stay humble.

I’m warning you, there will be a lot of talk about relationships, manners, and dancing at balls.  You will feel like the lone Y chromosome at a bridal shower in 17^th century England.  Now, if you are a prideful male convinced there is no wisdom to be had from a bridal shower, you will perhaps miss Pride and Prejudice’s greatest quality: the jewels of wisdom Ms. Austen throws in among what appears to be silly chatter.  If you aren’t humble, you will cruise right by them trying to get to the action.

Some of my favorite jewels are as follows:

“…their passions were stronger than their virtue.”

            (Yikes, this concisely describes high school and college…)

Speaking on their shared disdain for small talk Elizabeth says: “We are each of us an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”

(Hmm…my distaste for small talk doesn’t seem so…personality driven)

“Nothing is more deceitful than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.

(ouch! I do love to appear humble…it’s not a stretch to see humility masked as boasting)

The book is drenched in wisdom but we will miss it if we are not humble.  And while we’re talking humility, don’t be too proud to read with a dictionary in reach.  She uses big words.  Humble yourself, grab a dictionary, and learn a few.  Don’t pretend like you know what she’s saying all the time.

Tip #3 Read in a British accent.

I’m not sure which axiom of speech pathology I have stumbled upon, but when I read Austen in a British accent, it flows off the tongue and I can better intuit the intonations of her language.  Remember, its jam packed of old-school British verbiage and even if the accent is just in your head, you will somehow read faster and smoother than trying to hammer through in your own unsophisticated accent.

Tip #4 Be prepared for a shock.

The story itself is not shocking.  If you haven’t heard already, Darcy and Elizabeth get married as well as Jane and Bingley; it’s all a matrimonial paradise.  But what’s shocking is how tender you will feel towards Elizabeth and how much respect and admiration you will have for Darcy.  I really can’t explain how Austen did it either. For the first half of the book I was convinced I didn’t really care, but as Darcy’s layers are slowly (very slowly) peeled back, I found myself rooting for this relationship as much as I have for any literary romance.² 

Also surprising is Austen’s ability to write the villain.  When Lady De Bourgh demanded Elizabeth to stay away from her nephew and threatened to destroy her family with all her money and social influence, I desperately wanted Elizabeth to showcase her hidden knife throwing skills.  My read aloud voices became intense and loud, I’m thinking “Aha!  Death match!  Let’s do this!”  In this case, De Bourgh’s villainy was magnified by the fact that for 3/4 of the book I was quite convinced the only villain was dull conversation and a silly 16 year girl. 

With a few easy considerations and a proper frame of mine, this story can be enjoyed by all.  Simply stay away from thrillers and Hemmingway beforehand, hang in there when it slows down, open your heart to the characters, and above all, read in a British accent—no, sorry—above all, be prepared for Austen’s wit, wisdom, and loveable characters. So grab your sweetie and shut off that TV.  Sit up in bed, and by the light of your nightstand lamp put your arm around her while she rests her head on your chest.  Enjoy the beauty of reading a classic aloud together.

Thanks for reading and enjoy!

1.  Not that reading with your wife is the only acceptable Pride and Prejudice endeavor…

2.  It’s no Ron and Hermione, but it’s up there.

A Dream is Realized

I quick update of good news: my wife and I moved into our new house and I’m typing this from my new library.  That’s right, library. Let me tell you about it.  Off the kitchen is a simple 12X8 room with two windows overlooking the back yard.  It has a brick fire place, wood paneling on every wall, and wood floors with walnut pegs (I’m told this is stylish). Dark stained cedar beams run across the middle and perimeter of the white ceiling.  Six, dark cherry colored book shelves line the walls and two leather chairs rest on a soft, tan rug facing the fire place. They are at a strategic distance for the warming of feet by fire and provide an alert yet comfortable posture helping to avoid the unintended reading nap.²  One simple light is directly above the two chairs and it seems to have been waiting for someone to read to it all these years.  Outside the window my bird feeder and bird bath rest underneath a 50 year old oak tree and are in perfect view from both chairs.¹ So far, dark eyed juncos and a male and female cardinals are my most regular visitors.  A ready chess board sits between the two chairs (I’ve always wanted a room with a ready chess board!).  The west facing windows let in soft, orange light at sunset when the cardinals often come back to feed.  It's a room in which a hobbit might light a pipe full of good leaf at the end of long day.

A non-reading friend sat down in my chair the other day and said, “Man, even I feel like reading a book in here.” Unfortunately, he continued, “But you know what would be cool? A nice fat, flat screen above the mantle.” 

Sorry my friend, there are no TV’s in this room.

Even in the off position, TVs silently gloat of their stranglehold on my life.  “That book is cute and all, but you know where you will come when your eyes get a little tired, and you reach the inevitable lull in your little story.”  TVs are pompous, loud and change the spirit of a room.  Crackling fire, birds chirping in spring, conversations, the occasional turning of pages, maybe the thud of an aggressive chess move.  These are the sounds of a library.

For the first time in my life there is a designated room for reading and I’ve been amazed at how well it reminds me to schedule time for something that is good for my soul.  I don’t want to squeeze some reading in before I go to bed, when I’m good for about 10 minutes before my eyes start shutting on their own.  I want to be present.  I want the mental capacity to visualize and the alertness to share a meaningful passage with my wife.  It's not just a pre-nap activity.

It is my favorite room of any house I’ve ever lived in.  I actually have opinions on décor which is a new thing for my wife and me to navigate (every room needs a framed 85’ Royals World Series poster right?).  I’ll say it again: I’m typing this from my library.  It is sanctioned tranquility.  The book shelves are only a quarter full right now, but the chess board is set-up, the chairs are warm and inviting and it is now ready for a visitor or two who can handle an evening without the chatter of a TV.  You are welcome anytime...

   

Thanks for reading,

-td

1. I may or may not have required my wife to sit in both chairs while I moved the feeder and bath six inches to the right, then two inches back, then three inches back to the left etc.  My wife may or may not have given me the, “are you serious?” look after the sixth bird viewing check.
2. Let’s be honest with ourselves\: When we lay down on a couch on a Sunday afternoon with a book, we are not reading.  We are justifying a nap by taking along a book. We wake up an hour and a half later saying, “Oh, wow I must have fallen asleep…”  We should just take a teddy bear next time and be more comfortable/honest.

colonel dumbass

The only thing worse than a blogger is an inconsistent blogger. Shame to him who shouts to the world, “Come revel in the minutiae of my life! …but only when I feel like it…which might be every other month…but anyway… Come glory in my Minutiae! Isn‘t my Minutiae fascinating?”

A number of things have conspired to keep me from writing. There’s the standard laziness. There’s the holiday season, moving into a new house and failed attempts at other writing projects.¹ You can also safely assume that every writing session must thwart the ever present temptation to pick up my book and snuggle into a chair with my fleece Mizzou blanket. I can find any number of reasons not to write, which is a little strange because I get so energized by writing that sometimes I can't sleep.

While all of these factors played a minor role in my blogging absence, I began to recognize the presence of something deeper. Something from my history with writing. You see, I loved to write in high school and early college. Poems, essays, short stories, just about anything. I’d show them to my English teachers and friends wanting editing (err-affirmation).  From my junior year in high school, to my sophomore year in college my words flowed freely. I was going to be the editor of my college creative writing journal. My comp professors would use my papers as examples. I was a writer.

I’m not sure when it happened. It might have been a stinging word of criticism or the realization that I wasn’t the best writer on Emporia’s campus.  I'm not sure because it was a slow erosion and not one particular incident.  But over time, that deeply critical voice began looking over my shoulder whenever I sat down to write. The voice could find no humor or joy in the trite wanderings of a high school boy making his way in the world.  “Is not your entire portfolio a bit like a three year old who has stumbled upon a pair of cymbals?” he would suggest in a snobbish British accent.  Every time I sat down to write he spoke firmly, “Don’t you think you will read this in a year and cringe like you do reading your high school ‘poetry?’” Or, "Have you seen people react to your singing (pause with a sneer).... do I need to connect the dots for you between your singing and your writing?"  The thoughts were different and biting but they seemed to follow a similar theme; “Travis don’t ever, ever make yourself look stupid.”

It’s easy to mistake pride for, high standards or fear for, other interests.  And with this voice banging away at the back of my skull even journaling became arduous and haphazard.  I stopped writing and I didn’t miss it.

Luckily, this past summer, on a long beautiful bus ride through New Zealand, the desire stirred once again. My wife had fallen asleep and I leaned my head against the window exhausted from the day. I remember noticing a few distant snow covered peaks. In geologic time these mountains sprung up last night while the earth slept and this somehow makes every snow cap fresh and white like it's the first time snow has ever fallen there. About this time a quiet, gentle nudge, “What about writing again?” New Zealand mountains have a way of warding off critical voices. They are not welcome there and they seem to realize it.  Beauty and truth are interconnected and to be surrounded by beauty is to be surrounded by stark truth.  A seasoned liar doesn't come at you while surrounded by truth, the contrast is too great.  He'd be a white mouse drooped into a fall forest.  Even Grandpa Hawk sees him 6 miles away for exactly what he is.

Later on that same bus ride, a movie was playing and a character shared perhaps my favorite quote. It starts simply and builds, “It's not the critic who counts...” It struck me then that I love that quote not because I’m surrounded by critics but because I longed to turn off my own critic. I wanted to tell that voice that he counts for nothing. And so with tears in my eyes and this truth echoing between the freshness of snow and peaks and sky and the truth of New Zealand's young beauty, I decided I wanted to write again. Deeper still I wanted be rid of that voice. 

Paul gave that part of him a name.  He called it his flesh.  I think it helps to name it.  It helps in differentiating lies from truth.  Heart from flesh.  Somehow it helps in recognizing it when it's speaking.  It's easier to call someone a liar who has a name.

I've named that part, Colonel Dumbass.  Not because he has reached the sort of stature or respectability given to a colonels but simply because in the world of dumb asses he is their colonel.  He shouts things and tries to sound authoritarian but really he's just a scared dumb ass.  Unfortunately, he had much more to do with my absence from writing this semester than all of the other excuses combined.  He is the excuse that all of the other excuses look to for affirmation.

Avada Kedavra colonel dumbass!² A killing curse in your face, how does that taste?    Will I look back on the above rhyme with horror tomorrow, and a year from now, and the year after that?

Yes. Yes I will.

Author Anne Lamott³ once said, "Perfectionism will ruin your writing, blocking inventiveness and playfulness and life force (these are words we are allowed to use in California)...In fact the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts."

The willingness to be embarrassingly awful is pure glory.  So here I am, back for the last quarter of the school year, ready to rise above my list of excuses, share my minutiae, and push colonel dumbass off a steep New Zealand cliff only to land on a jagged New Zealand glacier.

Thanks for coming back.  More updates about the reading adventure I am on with my students, which is still going strong.

Happy reading.

-td


1.  Can't quite get a hold of my thoughts on Mizzou leaving the big 12.  It's a jumbled mess that even I can't follow.

2.  And did you notice I didn't capitalize your name? That's right you've been demoted below all proper nouns including Spam and University of Kansas.

3.  Please read some Anne Lamott quotes.  A wonderful combination of hilarity and truth. 

My thoughts on Hendrix: Setting the Record Straight, by Edward Kramer

"The first time I saw Eric (Clapton) I thought, 'Wow there is a master guitar player.'  But Eric was a guitar player, Jimi was some sort of force of nature..." -Jack Bruce

It's fascinating to watch musicians age.  On the one hand you have the Rolling Stones who are trying their darndest to give fans the same experience of 30 years ago.  Nothing quite like watching a 60 year old man on stage in leather pants.  On the other hand you have Clapton, who, when I saw him in concert a few years ago, opened the show by pulling a single chair on stage, grabbing his acoustic guitar and jamming away without any accompaniment.  I loved it, but just a little different from his Cream days, pinning over George Harrison's wife and strung out on heroine.  He changed, and naturally his music changed.

Nothing in the world of music would have been more fascinating than watching Jimi Hendrix age.  Unprecedented talented colliding with pure musical obsession.  I can't see him going Rolling Stones on us and  I can't see the back end of his career being defined by an acoustic guitar like Clapton. 
So dear readers, let's play the "What would you change if you could go back in modern music history?" game.  Of course, I'm sneaking into that London flat and stealing the sleeping pills.  Of course I'm bringing 60 year old Clapton with me to convince Jimi to go to rehab. And, from there I hop back in my time machine and learn that the following has transpired:  Jimi goes under ground for a couple years and gets clean of his drug and sex addictions.  He resurfaces with Eric as his Narcotics Anonymous sponsor and steps back onto stage for the mother of all reunion concerts in Monterrey, California where it all began in the U.S. for Jimi.  A media feeding frenzy ensues like Jordan returning to the Bulls after baseball.  As soon as Jimi steps off the stage, Clapton is waiting for him.  "Jimi, how do you feel?"  "Ah, Easy (I think Jimi would call him Easy, I don't have a good reason for this) I feel groovy man, just groovy, the people man, ahh, I love these people...groovy man."  "But do you feel like acting out?  You just stepped into your old world, do you want to get high?"  "Nah I feel good, Easy.  I'm high on Love brother."  They then decide that Jimi will check in with Easy after every show.  No exceptions, this is the safe guard.  He gives Clapton permission to ask his managers and handlers how he is doing.  He knows EC loves him and wants to live a transparent, sober life.  He makes his millions over the next couple years, cuts 3 amazing albums giving the fans exactly what they've been missing.

Then Jimi gets bored. He decides he's not being challenged as a musician.  He dives into Jazz and Blues but naturally loses many of his main stream fans.  He doesn't care though, he's had a spiritual awakening; the cries of the people mean nothing to him.  He cuts a couple of Jazz and Blues albums with BB King and Miles Davis but the albums barely break the Billboard 100. Hard core musicians know they are transcendent but they aren't selling.  These Jazz/Blues albums create a whole new group of "Jimi Snob" fans who look down their nose every time someone starts humming, "The Wind Cries Mary."  You don't know the real "Jimi" they snicker.  But know no one knows the real Jimi because he's off the grid, no one's heard from him ever since he skipped out on Jimmy Kimmel Live a few months ago.  wheresjimi.com gets off the ground but only Clapton knows where he i,s and he ain't talking.  A year passes and Jimi is found in Mumbai dressed in a kurta learning to play the sitar from a Hindu monk named Punjab whom he dubs his new "Spiritual Advisor/musical soul mate."  Clapton is secure in himself and doesn't feel threatened by Punjab and welcomes him into Jimi's inner circle.  Jimi thanks the media for their interest but he's happy in India, and he's not coming home yet.  Jimi then uses his millions to make a kick-ass Indian recording studio to cut his own sitar album because no major record label is touching a sitar album called "The Smooth Grooves of Punjabi-land."  Jimi doesn't care.  EC does a guest solo on one of the songs but declines to wear the kurta.  Les Paul offers to make Jimi an electric sitar with distortion and even a wah wah pedal, but Jimi's had an awakening and he isn't about to commercialize this. 

Eventually Jimi is playing the sitar behind his back, with his teeth, and in every way surpasses his mentor Punjab who is more than happy for his protege.  Jimi heads back to the US but doesn't have a desire for a traditional tour. Jimi invents a new form of touring called, "Bonzai!"  He shows up at random public places and spontaneously starts whaling away.  The concerts are free and you never know if he's going to have his stratocastor or sitar.  Sometimes he's got both at the same time, one in each hand, coming at you like two machine guns, Scarface style.  Sometimes EC will make an appearance.  Some nights Punjab is in town you just never know on the "Bonzai."  Naturally there are several "Bonzai Websites" that pop up, trying to predict where he will show up next, and announcing to the world whenever a show has started.  Jimi goes to NA meetings in every city Bonzai takes him, encouraging local groups and continuing his process through the 12 steps.  He's had an awakening and after 50 years of music you still don't know what's coming next.

Nothing would have been more fascinating than watching Jimi Hendrix age as a musician.  This story would not have been outside the realm of possibility.  I'm no different than any other music fan reading about Jimi.  Ultimately I have nothing but a cliche to offer; "What a waste."  Jimi dying of a sleeping pill overdose, on some random chicks couch, after a drug induced stupor is like pouring a  $500 bottle of wine down the bathtub drain.  Almost impossible to know his story and feel anything different.

However, let me leave you with a couple of my favorite Hendrix songs outside his super mainstream hits like "All Along the Watchtower", "The Wind Cries Mary", "Fire", etc.  Before you listen though, do me a favor. Put your headphones on.  Don't listen to these songs through your crappy computer (or phone) speakers.  Put your headphones on, close your eyes, turn up the volume just a little louder then you normally do and remember that perhaps the greatest guitarist ever poured himself out over this recording.  If other guitarists of his day spent 1 hour on a song in the recording studio, Jimi spent 15-20.  He once spent a week trying to get one 10 second guitar solo to match the sound that he "heard in a dream."  Come on!  Just put the headphones on and press them to your ears a little. 

Savor this. 

All true beauty is His beauty and all amazing guitarists were gifted by Him who loves music more than we do. 

Thanks for making it this far. 

Enjoy.

Little Wing
Bold as Love


Can't resist this one even though it's more mainstream:  You will never listen to Like a Rolling Stone the same again.